A blog about my history project, a biography of an 18th century American woman who lived in and is buried in my town. I kind of think of her as my imaginary friend. Or my ghostly friend. Or a friendly ghost. Ghostly friend sounds better.

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Tuesday, March 29, 2011

10th President of Princeton University (then known as the College of New Jersey)

Phebe Taylor's Great-Grandson

So, I got sick of the PTA post being the most recent post. Especially considering that it wasn't all that much about the PTA but more a random collection of my random thoughts.

I remembered that one of Phebe's great-grandsons was important. And then I thought, hey, maybe there's a portrait of him. And there is! A photograph! Or a daguerrotype, technically. From wiki, naturally.

Now this is a handsome fella. He was the 10th president of Princeton University and there is a building named after him. I should maybe go check that out! And visit his grave.

He is related to Phebe in the following way: Phebe and John Taylor had Mary Taylor. She married Absalom Bainbridge. They had a number of children, including Captain William Bainbridge about whom I recently wrote. In addition to the Captain and about 12 other children, they had a daughter named Phoebe Bainbridge. She married Dr. John Maclean and they had John Jr. in 1800.

John Maclean Jr. never met Phebe, of course, but still. What I like about him is that it's a lineage through the female line. Phebe's daughter's daughter's son. Reminds me of the great movie Antonia's Line. Phoebe Bainbridge did have a daughter who had children, so I should look into that line. John Jr. died unmarried, so he never had children...that we know of - hey ooo! Had to get that in there.

One thing that strikes me, looking at his portrait is good Lord but I love those cravats. I truly do.

UPDATE! I love Google image searches. Really, really. I went looking for an image of the Maclean building at Princeton, and this came up. This is George Macintosh Maclean and his son John. George was the brother of John Jr. (above), the 10th President of Princeton. George was very well known in academic circles in his own right. George, however, was not such a good lookin' fella. In any case, below is a picture of another of Phebe's great-grandsons and a picture of her great-great-grandson, taken sometime between 1842 and 1845.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Hi! A few things. Just as a first approach to calling out the apparently current American dream as complete bs, this article is great. Take the time to read it, if you can. A little bit over my head for a Saturday morning with little sleep last night, but I liked it. Bonus are the haikus about Matt Damon on the page. My favorite: Your "Good Will Hunting"/ 'Twas a masterpiece. It's true:/ We liked them apples.

I myself am finding that I'm completely glad to not be in any kind of a rat race or super mommy race or aggressive career race or recapture my youthful figure and athleticism (although my atheticism was, how you say, non-existant) race. Kind of beating the race thing to death. But you get the idea. I can relax about all that stuff now and focus on the important stuff, like figuring out how to live so that I don't feel miserable all the time. How to love the people around me and let them know that, even though I have to spend less time with them than before, due to the fact that I really really really just want to lie down.

*sigh* On the flip side to the whole perfection/rat race thing, also in this Saturday's NY Times Magazine, is a picture, real close like, of a pot-smokin granny. A pot smokin granny who has done so, for 35 years (8 joints a day! Good Lord!) because of, you guessed it, MS. Mother feckin MS. So two extremes covered in one magazine. Are these my two choices? Ima gonna choose something in the middle, thank you. Maybe skewing a little towards stoner grammy. But hopefully without the pot. All this on a foggy, cognitively-challenged Saturday morning. Good mornin' to ya!

I started off thinking about writing a new post because this happened to me yesterday. I realized my sister is Hipster Kitty. She said these exact words to me, completely unironically mind you, yesterday in a phone call when I started joking about the song Friday. Even down to the Tuesday part.

A lot of things started to fall together once I made the connection. But then I started to wonder. Do you think she knows about these memes? The hipster memes? Does she think they're funny? Like, in a meta way? Or does she think she's actually cool and these memes are making fun of people who only think they're cool? Lots to ponder. I love her, but she's a "dose" as my mom says.

Oh, so last night at the PTA charity event, the gift auction. I won nothing. Bupkiss. How do you spell that? Nada. I think I was the only one at the table for whom this was true. So sad!

My friend Kristy said (paraphrasing here), "I can't wait for those PTA b's to pressure you about doing more! Then you can tell them where to go!" (She said it much more funnily.) That whole idea, though, is predicated on the idea that I exist to the PTA b's. And I do not. It's kind of a cultural thing, I think. It's a bit of an insular society around here and for someone like me, introverted, quiet, not from New Jersey, they don't know what to do with me. So they do nothing. Which is fine. I don't really care, but I felt bad for the friend I went with because she's much more social than I am and I weighed her down a bit. But she asked me to go and I gave it my own half-hearted effort. I should call her and apologize.

Anywhoo, the whole thing was not my bag. In the same way that sororities were not my bag (though I ended up rushing and joining - for my mom) or that a debutante party in Mississippi was not my bag (though I ended up doing that - for my mom). This PTA thing, I would try to do for my daughter, but I'm realizing that I really can't. Can't do it anymore. Does this fall under the parvenue of races in which I'm no longer participating? Think so. Have your permission to fall out of this race too? Yea? Super. I just don't want it to affect my daughter, but I officially have an excuse now a days, so other, more important things to worry about.

The theme was "Disco Night". One funny thing that happened was that this woman wore this skin tight, 70's style hot pink dress (she looked like a hot pink stuffed sausage) and my very nice friend commented on the dress (saying she looked great!). And she rolled her eyes and said, "It's supposed to be a costume! No one's getting that!" Her, I liked.

The other thing that happened was that they played the Deee Lite song "Groove is in the Heart". Funny thing about that song is that it has a particular poignancy for me. Christmas break, freshman year, was a particularly good time for me. School was going well. I liked my dorm, my roommate, my classes. Myself. The whole sorority thing hadn't started up yet (that was in the spring freshman year). And I came home to my good friends and because I was finally 18, we went to the local Daytona night club, The Coliseum. (It still exists, btw. I think that's one of those "you can never go home again" kind of a things.) I was fucking on top of the world that night.

I found a diary from that period recently, and apparently, a bunch of guys liked me. For the first time in my life, this was true. And I was completely smitten with the idea that a bunch of guys liked me. My ex-boyfriend wanted me back, then there was a guy at school who liked me, along with a friend of one of my high school friends back home and a skater friend of mine from high school. (The last one I should've picked. He's going to be a famous novelist soon. For real. He's super super talented.)

It's one of those snowball effects, I think. You like yourself and you become attractive to those around you. Plus I was skinny and boob-y and just... happy. So anyway, that night at The Coliseum, I remember the moment that I realized I was kind of euphoric. I had a self-aware moment. I remember everything about that moment. I was wearing a really really cheap, polyester knock-off Pucci style dress. Like this, only polyester and much much uglier:

Yea. So. I thought I looked good. The thing about Pucci dresses is that there's not a lot of room between a good design and an "Oh. My. God." design. Not a lot of room. I wish I still had that dress because I'd like to photograph it for you.

The main reason I bring this whole little story up, though, is that I remember the song that was playing because it related to the dress. "Groove is in the Heart" was a fantastic song. Is. Bum, bum bum, bum bum bum, bum bum, bum bum bum bum bum. Repeat. I danced and danced and danced and sweated and danced some more. And was truly truly happy.

So... they played that song last night at the gift auction. And I smiled as I remembered that night twenty years ago. And I escaped for a bit.

Monday, March 14, 2011

This is from the NY Times Magazine, the Lives page at the back of the magazine. Sometimes they're duds. This one, "The Mellegards of Mellerud" by Vendela Vida, makes me cry. Possibly because I'm very melodramatic and maudlin. And also because it's great.

The Mellegards of Mellerud by Vendela Vida

My grandfather, Birger Mellegard, always dreamed of bringing his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren together for a reunion on the family farm in Mellerud, Sweden. But he died before it could happen. Determined to honor his wish, last July my mother and her two surviving sisters gathered all 35 of Birger’s descendants there at the farm. His progeny came from all over: Idaho, California, Holland, Denmark and various parts of Sweden. My cousin Anna had the shortest commute: she and her husband live in Birger’s old house.

Holly Wales

On a warm Saturday evening, we all huddled around my grandparents’ wedding photo and raised a toast. Birger had a high forehead and eyes so light that even in a black-and-white photo you can tell they were cornflower blue. My grandmother, Vendela, had wavy hair, full lips and a watchful look. They married and had five children in rapid succession. But in 1945 she died of meningitis, at age 33, leaving my grandfather with the children, ages 2, 4, 7, 9 and 11.

After the death of his wife, Birger tried to get help. In the newspapers of Gothenburg, he advertised for a full-time nanny, and a series of hopeful women took trains up to the farm. One after the other was interviewed and deemed acceptable by Birger, but then after taking the job, quickly scared off by the children. It was “The Sound of Music” without the money or Julie Andrews. To frustrate the candidates, the siblings played loud music and invited their friends over for dance parties. They shoveled snow in the fireplace, making it impossible to light a fire.

“Enough,” Birger said, after the third woman left. There would be no nanny. They had their father to themselves, and Birger had the five children to himself. He never remarried.

The local government decided to intervene. One day two men in suits came to the farm accompanied by a nurse (municipalities in Sweden had official nurses responsible for children). My mother and her siblings watched from an adjacent room through a crack in the door. Birger sat down at the kitchen table with this nurse and the two men. They informed Birger that the oldest sister would be allowed to stay at home, but that the rest of the children should be split up and taken care of by other families. Birger said nothing, but his hands clenched into fists. Really, the nurse insisted, it’s in everyone’s best interest. There was a long pause, during which a fury gathered in Birger’s blue eyes. He raised his fist and brought it down so hard on the table that the floor shook. “Out!” he commanded. “All of you, out of my house!”

Those people never returned, but others in the village helped. The kids knew which farmer’s house to go to when they wanted cookies; whom to go to when they wanted jam. Each morning, Ulla-Britt, the oldest sister, made sure their hair was brushed and their clothes were clean. Each evening, a local schoolteacher came over and gave them baths.

The kids picked berries in the fields, swam in the lake and skied to school. They look back on their childhood as idyllic, despite the many hardships. When the youngest, Marianne, was 2, her leg was run over by a tractor, and thereafter, she wore a brace. My mother’s older brother was born with polio and walked with a limp. Ulla-Britt died of cancer on her first wedding anniversary. She was 29.

After that, most of the siblings scattered, but Marianne stayed on the farm with her husband. My uncle Rolf died two years ago, leaving only the three youngest Mellegard sisters. As if clinging to what they have left, the three sisters get together often, sometimes sleeping in the same room, the way they did as girls, and talk into the morning.

After dinner on the last night of the reunion, we sat outside by the lake, drinking coffee and eating strawberries with cream. It was 9 p.m. and bright out, the midsummer sun still a few hours from fading. As I sat there watching my children play in the same place Birger’s children had played, I wished I knew more about his wife, my grandmother, whom I was named after and whose wedding ring I wear (it was given to me because it’s engraved with my name). And I wondered what Birger would make of this gathering, if he would consider his stubbornness justified, his sacrifices after her death worthwhile. As if to answer these questions, my mother looked at her sisters, curled her hand into a fist and banged it on the table triumphantly. “What a success!” she said.

Friday, March 11, 2011

It took me a while to calm down, afterwards. To come down from the high. But I'm doing well and my brain is again functioning so that I may transcribe something that I think is great for you.

I found more information about her family from a source that was not so interested in hating on the Loyalists of Monmouth County (in contrast to Asher Taylor for example). In fact, there is a sentence in this typed-up family history that is as follows (and OMG, is it a long sentence - brace yourself) (Also, I don't know who wrote this or when. I hope to get at least a date on it, though, when I go back to the library. The folder is simply entitled "Taylor Family Miscellany"):

"But the best of the Loyalists, however, were entirely too honorable to engage in midnight expeditions to rob and murder former friends and neighbors. Indeed, very many Tories were of the best families in America, and men of this class (to which the Taylors preeminently belong) never committed acts dishonorable as soldiers; this, together with the fact that they socially stood high and that many had held influential positions in the community, exerted a very injurious influence in the patriot cause; of course, the example of such men served to entice many of their friends and acquaintances to the ranks of the enemy, and to cause others secretly to wish them well."

So this family history includes an anecdote. A wonderful one, regarding William Bainbridge, Phebe and John's grandson by their daughter Mary. If you remember from my last true Phebe related post, it was known that William was partially, if not fully, raised by his grandparents in Middletown, in their house on Ruckman Hill. It was also known that he "had the reputation of being bold and of combative nature, so much so that he became a terror to the lads far and near, At the age of eighteen he went to sea." That's from that same account written by E.C.M. VanBrunt.

I should mention that eventually, William Bainbridge became Captain William Bainbridge, a hero of the American Navy during the War of 1812 with Great Britain. He was nationally known - a hero. Exciting, right? Handsome lookin' fella, right? *sigh* On a side note, I'm despairing a bit over finding a portrait of Phebe. But, I'm finding relatives, which is something, I guess.

Anyway, the anecdote in "Taylor Family Miscellany" is about a 16 year old William Bainbridge who once took a walk with his grandfather and who kicked the a of the man twice his size who came upon them in order to protect the honor of his elderly grandfather. It's a good story. But long. Also, sadly, there is no mention of Phebe. Or of William's mother, Mary, for that matter. In fact, I'm coming to realize that this anecdote is remarkably lacking in women. Huh. But we have to assume that they were also in charge of William. I'll get more on Phebe soon, I promise.

Without further ado:

A Revolutionary Legend.

A Tale of Middletown-- William Bainbridge's Early Life.

(From the Freehold Transcript.)

Among the American naval officers who distinguished themselves in our war with Great Britain in 1812 was William Bainbridge, whose boyhood had been passed at Middletown, in the County of Monmouth. Commanding the good ship Constitution, afterwards known in history as Old Ironsides, while cruising along the coast of Brazil he fell in with the British frigate Java, commanded by Captain Lambert......... (Blogger's note: I will spare you the details of this battle. And you're welcome.)

From this time to the day of his death, July 18th, 1833, Captain Bainbridge's career is part of the naval history of the United States, and too well known to need repitition. He was the son of Dr. Adsalom Bainbridge of Princeton. His father moved to New York city and left William, then a mere child, in charge of his maternal grandfather, John Taylor of Middletown.

William Bainbridge lived with his grandfather, John Taylor, at Middletown until 1792, when he sold his farm to George Crawford. In the survey then made of the farm, he acted as one of the chain-bearers for his grandfather. A map of this survey is still in existence, and the signature of William Bainbridge appears thereon as one of the chain bearers. He write (sic) at that time a very neat and graceful hand.

(Blogger's note: A bit repetitive - sorry. Fixin' to get informative and entertaining, I promise.)

Among some of the traditions which still linger among the hills of Middletown of the boyhood life of William Bainbridge, is one which exhibits that indomitable resolution which characterized his after life, and was perhaps the secret of his success. After the Revolutionary war closed, the lot of the more prominent loyalists who were compelled to remain here was very unhappy. Not only was the property of many of them confiscated, but they were often subjected to insults, abuse and even personal violence. The outrages, robberies and murders which had devastated Monmouth County during the war, had aroused the most savage and malignant passion and the bitterest feuds between neighbors, some of which have lasted almost to these times. The Tories who remained were often shown but little mercy; and strange to say some of those whose patriotism was very doubtful during the war, and who were more than suspected of selling poultry, eggs, vegetables and other farm produce to the British fleets, which were anchored in the lower bay or to the British army on Staten Island, and in New York City for English gold, were among the most abusive and violent in their treatment of the outspoken and honest loyalists. They appeared to think that they could in this way rehabilitate their reputations as patriots.

(Blogger's note: Whew. The anecdote begins now. And it is one hell of a paragraph.)

A man of this kind named Walling lived at Centerville, about half way between Middletown and Keyport. He was a man of great size and physical strength and notorious all over the county as a rough and tumble fighter. In those days nearly every neighborhood had its local bully or champion fighter. On election and general training days, these fighters would meet and fierce battles would ensue, in which kicking, biting, gouging and all the injury men could do to each other without using weapons, was allowable. Walling had been victorious in all his fights, and under the influence of liquor was very abusive and insulting to anyone who crossed his path. As a result very few men cared to have anything to do with him and avoided any quarrel with him. Walling, like many others in the neighborhood where he lived, when he had an errand to Middletown village, and went on foot, would take a short cut through by Hendrickson's stillhouse, on across the Wilson farm and Sheriff John Taylor's farm to the Village of Middletown. A private lane or road ran back of Sheriff Taylor's house to the rear of his farm. The old sheriff was in the habit of walking back on his farm every day when the weather was pleasant. His young grandson, William Bainbridge, often accompanied him in these walks. One pleasant day in June when young Bainbridge was about sixteen years old (Blogger's note: 1790, one year before Phebe died.), he accompanied his grandfather, and on their return, when near Cocowder spring, now on the Beekman property, they met Walling, who had been to the village and was on his way back home. The old Sheriff bid him pleasantly good day. Walling began at once to abuse him, saying that "old Tories ought to have their necks stretched" and that he especially "ought to be cleared out of the country." Young Bainbridge stepped up in front of the big bully and told him if he couldn't speak civilly to his grandfather to get off the place. Walling without a word struck young Bainbridge a blow on the forehead which sent him reeling back eight or ten feet, when he fell heavily on his back. He was on his feet, however, in an instant, and rushed wildly at Walling, who again knocked him down. Again Bainbridge sprang to his feet and rushed at his giant antagonist. There was now such a look of grim determination on his face, and such an expression of fury and rage flashing from his eyes, that Walling was seized with a panic and without stopping to analyze his feelings, leaped over a side fence and ran across the fields as fast as his long legs permitted. He stopped at Hendrickson's stillhouse, and after indulging in a few drinks of apple-jack, illustrating the truth of the old adage, "veritas in vino," he frankly told of his encounter with the old Tory's brat, as he called young Bainbridge, saying, "I knowed I could lick him with one hand tied behind my back and both eyes shut. I knocked him down twice, but when he came at me the third time I could see murder shinin' out of his eyes, and he had such an ugly Inginny look as would have skeart the devil. I tell you, that young Bill Bainbridge will be hung for murder." So the story told by Walling went the rounds of the countryside, and after this Sheriff Taylor was not insulted when young Bainbridge was present.

Good right? Are you glad you waded through all that? This is becoming the new normal for me. Lots and lots of wading. But there are gems in store.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Hi. Sooo... I kind of skipped this post when I posted the last post. This post is the one where I actually state that it's believed I have MS. I say it that way because we're getting the final* word next Wednesday. We know what he's going to say, though. (*final word because it still may not be the final word, according to what I've read about how long it takes to diagnose MS)

I wasn't going to say anything official until after next Wednesday, but this whole thing has been ruling my brain for some time now and it appears that I cannot stop from writing about it. So there we are. Plus, my whole hometown in Florida knows about it, apparently, so I should just maybe start telling my own friends about it. (I include any readers as my friends. Awwww. *sigh* A bit sad, that.) I've been avoiding actually stating it also because on the off chance the neurologist says I don't specifically have MS next Wednesday, then I'll be the asshole who got everyone freaked out about nothing. Only, there's no way it's nothing. So, even if it's not MS, it would have to be some other really not good neurological disorder. Whew. OK.

I can't stand still. Literally. I weave when I try to stand still. Impaired balance, it seems. While my dizziness has abated and is no longer my primary symptom, I still have extreme fatigue to deal with. That's the most debilitating.

All that above paragraph? Hate it. I sound (and again, sorry) like a pussy. I do. That's how much I hate it, is that I'm willing to use the word pussy in a public fashion. Twice, it seems. It's just fatigue. "Snap out of it!" But, can't.

That's one good thing about getting a diagnosis of MS. My symptoms are no longer possibly just in my head. They are literally in my head. Ha. Meaning I have lesions. Haha! Not funny. Sorry. Oh, the other good thing about an MS diagnosis is that I have to no longer worry about my many social awkwardnesses. I have a disease! Of the brain! That's the reason I'm weird. That's the reason I have no memory of anyone's name ever. That's the reason. Yea.

For real, though, MS can alter your personality (see last post) and definitely alters your cognitive skills. Although, in my case, the cognitive skills thing might just be the fatigue. Hard to say. In any case, I now have a reason. Or excuse. Tomatoe, tomato. As far as why I was weird before, have been weird my whole life, though? That remains a mystery. Only not really (self-diagnosed Asperger's). Well, officially a mystery, I suppose.

I am a whole mess of mess right now. I'm not going to lie, that Mommy's Story pdf freaked me out. Despite the bleak picture painted by that book, I'm mostly in denial about what my future is going to be like. I'm pretty good at denial. This disease is weird too, which contributes to the denial. There really is no way to predict what's going to happen. Apparently, things can be mostly halted with medicine. Which is good. But no one ever says I'll be cured. That this will go away. This is going to be managed. Mother the fuck. (sorry)

So, in denial and a bit angry. I had plans. To go back to work when my son goes to Kindergarden. To travel to France for our fifteenth wedding anniversary (I'm a long-term planner). Just to travel. To have fun with my kids. (Kids are not invited to France.) But, go camping with them. Do stuff. And while, yes, I will be able to do stuff, this fatigue may never go away. May never go away. And that's really hard for me to handle right now.

Alright. For my rl friend who follows me, sorry to share this with you this way, but I haven't even told any friends in rl in any way. I've got to do that soon. And tell my children's teachers, apparently. Mother the fuck (sorry).

I might be injecting myself with medicine until the end of time. Oh and I'm feeling super sorry for myself right now, which I am allowing because I don't believe in suppressing emotions nowadays. Sorry to burden any reader with that. Mother the fuck.

I'll leave you with a Phebe related thing. A portrait of Phebe's brother, General Heard. Possibly her half-brother. But still. I could still find a portrait of her someday and that's something to look forward to. (What if she's "unfortunate" looking? Who will be the star in my historical romance novel imaginings then?) Anyway, here he is, Brigadier General Heard (image from this website). He has reenactors, y'all.

What do you think? Should I submit him to Bangable Dudes in History? I like his nose, actually. Strong nose. Oh, and I like his cravat/shirt thing going on.

Monday, March 7, 2011

This is insanely sad. Useful, I guess, but sad. Insanely sad. Fuck and me. (sorry for cursing)

Oh and my personality isn't weird enough, "Let's add a PBA!!!" (said, of course, like a young Anne Hathaway in Princess Diaries - be sure you include the slight lisp due to her retainer)

From the MSAA (Multiple Sclerosis Association of America) website. Specifically from the article entitled "MSAA Survey Reveals Surprising Results: Involuntary Crying and Laughing is Reported by More People With MS than Expected":

The purpose of this survey was to better understand the extent and impact of a particularly challenging neurological condition known to occur among people living with MS: pseudobulbar affect (PBA).

PBA is a condition that occurs in some people with certain neurological conditions, including MS, ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease), stroke, traumatic brain injury, Alzheimer's disease and others. It is characterized by exaggerated and inappropriate laughter and/or crying. During these emotional outbursts, the magnitude of the response is typically too extreme for the situation, and/or it may be inappropriate for the setting - such as laughing at a funeral or crying at a funny movie. These episodes can occur frequently, suddenly, and uncontrollably. Because of the crying episodes, PBA is often mistaken for depression and as a result, PBA is under-recognized. Unpredictable PBA episodes can cause embarrassment and distress leading to a significant impact on a person's employment, family relationships, social interactions, and overall quality of life.

In summary, I should just stay off the MS websites, perhaps, altogether. Doesn't help. Good gravy, but it doesn't help. On the plus side, I now have another fantastic excuse for any odd behavior.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

So, I love it. I do. I love love love it. And I have a crazy person as a close relative (ahem, father) so I know from crazy and it's not always funny. But this? Hilarious. He could just be rambling like Randy Quaid and that wasn't really funny at all. Aliens and conspiracy theories, not so funny. This winning thing? Endlessly fucking funny. To me. Makes me wish I did twitter so that I could end every single (every.single.) tweet with #winning.

I don't know what those Prudey McConcerned people on facebook's problem is. Things are being handled. He hasn't got the children around him anymore. I don't know. This is rambling, but to me, he's the kind of benign kind of crazy (provided he is not allowed to be alone with women - get a bodyguard on him stat, Martin) that brightens my kind of sucky life right now with the cleverness of his rants. I believe he's trying to be funny, in a way. Mission accomplished, young/old man. Good job. #winning.

But that's not the only thing I wanted to write about today. Two more things: 1. Motherhood and 2. Saint Pabu. Oh, as to the first two paragraphs, one more thing to say. If someone, anyone really, were to ask me what I've been up to lately, I don't think I could stop myself from saying "Winning. That's what I've been up to. Just...winning. And you?" But that's just me.

1. Motherhood

So, I love the New Yorker, we've gone over that. (Have we? Well, it's true.) I love it so much, I frequently wish I could marry it. Given. And I love personal essays about death. I can't help it. I'm morbid. I really can't help it. I love cemeteries, the Smiths, those crazy Victorian photographs of dead people, the idea of sitting with a body and then preparing it for burial. I like all that stuff. I don't know. Some people are obsessed with babies and the beginning of life. Me, I'm obsessed with the end. Not that it has anything to do with me, really. I don't want to die. Clearly. I just, think that it's a part of life that people freak out about and yet it happens to every single one of us. "In the midst of life, we are in death, et cetera..." Smiths, Sweet and Tender Hooligan (apparently, a quote taken from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer). Also, hence this Phebe project.

Recently, the New Yorker published two personal histories wherein the author lost a loved one. The first one, "The Wave" from the February 7th edition, was written by a man, Francisco Goldman, who suddenly and tragically lost his young wife. It was wonderful and so beautifully done. Oh, he loved her. It was a long essay, including how they met and fell in love, what their plans for the future were, and in a bizarre yet fully accurate way, every single detail from the day she died. It was heart-wrenching and beautiful. I said beautiful twice, that's how wonderful it was.

The second one, I read yesterday. It was "Story's End" by Meghan O'Rourke in the March 7th edition. This one not so much. A daughter's story about her mom's death. Maybe it was the shortness of it. Maybe we only got the smallest glimpse of her mother, of their relationship. It was more surface. I don't know. It didn't do it for me. But that's completely personal, obviously.

What I wanted to bring these up for was the following. She writes this sentence in this essay, "My brothers and I spent an inordinate amount of time with our mother when we were children, not only because we went to school where she worked, as the head of the middle school, but because she loved being with kids." This was weird. To me. Because I live in my own head and really frequently cannot imagine what life is like for others, it struck me. Are there children who spend no or little time with their mothers? I guess so. Not so much back then (I believe she grew up in the late 60's or early 70's), but now I guess.

Are there, though, really? And does it matter? I'm guessing that the Tiger mom's kids didn't spend much time with her. She seems like the kind of person who would be a workaholic. But still, she ruled those girls' lives. I am certain they cannot remember their childhoods without nearly every single memory tainted by her.

Doesn't every mother of every single person walking this earth have a profound effect on the identity of that person? On everything? And I don't just mean birth mother, clearly. Although, she counts too. I mean anyone who's the primary guardian of a child. Even if they work and the child's in daycare. Now I'm rambling again. I guess, when she wrote that sentence, I went, "Well, duh." OMG, I'm trying soooo hard to resist typing w.i.n.n.i.n.g right now. So hard.

I don't think I'm expressing myself very well. I guess it's just that for me, it's a given that a mother would spend an inordinate amount of time with their children. In the children's eyes, anyway. Regardless, a mother is everything. So actual time isn't important. Is this clear at all? I'm not sure how much time I spent with my mother, but she was everything. It's taken me decades to get over what she did and didn't do and to come to terms with it, to separate from her.

As for me, I don't do enough for my kids- they watch too much tv, I don't play with them enough, I'm impatient. Although frankly, lately, that's been due to my health issues. Will they someday, when I die, write "Mother didn't spend an inordinate amount of time with us. Or maybe she did, but she was on the computer and we were watching TV." Chrikees. I need to do better. But you know what? I'm doing fucking better than the Tiger mom and that's something. That's something.

2. Saint Pabu

This relates. Sort of. So...facebook. Oh, facebook. So... an ex-boyfriend found me. Hadn't thought of him in 19 years. Couldn't remember his last name (shut it, I'm not slutty. I knew it, but my memory's horrible. Shut it.) So we started corresponding in short emails, his end in his broken English. He's French. Lives in Brittany. I started dating him when I studied abroad for a semester sophomore year.

I don't really tell my husband about it. Having said that and perhaps scared you, I will tell you that as soon as any, and I do mean any, man (not limited to ex-boyfriends) starts acting weird or sexual on facebook or via any communication, I would shut that shit down. It's just my husband is jealous, which I find sweet, so I don't tell him. Plus he corresponds with an ex-girlfriend and he doesn't always tell me about it (well, not for months, but it's ok).

All of that is not important. Important thing is that I correspond with a guy, a French guy, who lives in the town he grew up in, in the very very small town he grew up in in Brittany. And his friend, who I met when I went with him to visit his hometown (at the time I met him he was living in Paris) is now the mayor. I think I remember him and this ex-boyfriend says that they "remember me". Bordering on weird, I know. Like I said, I am ready to shut it down at any second.

So...I went onto the google and tried to get a picture of this mayor to see if I remember him. I think I may. Anyway, I know (or "know") a mayor in a small town in Brittany. Or Bretagne. And I started looking at pictures of this town, Saint Pabu and it is lovely. I'd forgotten. Or maybe at 19 I didn't notice it so much. Truly lovely. I could see why people wouldn't leave.

And maybe it's because I just got back from a stressful weekend in my hometown, which has its lovely aspects, but I started thinking. Do people who stay in villages like that, do they ever have the desire to escape? Do they actually escape - the people for whom it is horrifically difficult? Or are they content to stay? To know as adults the children they grew up with? Cause I want not much to do with any of those people. I didn't really make friends until I was a teenager, though. And we were kind of the outcasts and have moved away. What about those people in the villages? Would they leave too?

Or is it me? The reason I'm adrift here in New Jersey. The loneliness I feel here. The panic I have about having no one to watch my children when my husband isn't home from work yet and I just want to lay in the fetal position on the floor. So instead, I turn on the tv and then read on the internet.

The idea of never being able to leave a village was always a nightmare for me. But now, I don't know. In my own personal case, I wouldn't want to live in the same town as my brother and sister-in-law. Jesus Christ, she's awful. And a fighter, too. And beautiful, skinny, popular and extroverted. So, my opposite. Living a lifetime in her shadow would be too much. Not even to mention the shadows of my mother and father.

It's not even an option for me and my husband, living in my original little village. In the end, it's good we're here. Even when the loneliness and panic strike.

Alrighty, last thing to say before I wrap this shizz up. I've never read a Nick Hornsby book. I don't know why. My husband loves him. I like the movies. A lot. Anyway, in High Fidelity, the John Cusack character (oh, just go imdb it yourselves) talks about how he would always get frustrated with his girlfriend and not just for the normal "schizophrenic" women stuff, but for other things, which he lists. So, yea. Nick Hornsby gets it. That was nice.

Oh, one last thing. I desperately want to go to Saint Pabu now. I know the freakin mayor, y'all. I'm just worried that I won't be able to travel like I want to. Travelling to Florida this past weekend has made me weaker than I've ever been. The future is tres uncertain for me and that's annoying. Almost as annoying as using the word tres right then, there.

About Me

I am at home with my two children, who are lovely btw, and have been at home for about 5 years. I'm an amateur writer and really really amateur historian. So please be gentle. I've published a chemistry thesis, though and co-authored several journal articles based on my chemistry research in graduate school. Oh, and also, please don't steal from me. Apparently, that's a problem on the interwebs. Thanks.